


The Threat of Joy

by neslow



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Boys Are Dumb, Break Up, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I love slutty nursey sorry, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, and sorry for quoting Freud, and thats about it, the l-word is scary, wedding shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neslow/pseuds/neslow
Summary: “Your mom, she-- she doesn’t know that we’ve broken up, does she.” There’s not even a hint of question to his tone.Ah. Fuck. Will had seen through him, right through Derek’s chest and into his weak excuse of a spine. He hates how easily Will does that.“It slipped my mind?” Derek tries.It wouldn’t be the first time he fails.…AU where they dated, broke up, and now have a wedding to attend. Things go swimmingly.





	1. Chapter 1

Derek blames it all on that coin toss. That _ fucking _ statistical miracle of a coin toss. He had looked it up. There’s a 1 in 6000 chance of a coin landing on its edge. Nevermind that it technically landed between the cracks of the floor boards; it had to mean _ something_. Then again, the average serious relationship lasts two years, and, well. A sick part of Derek wanted to laugh at that.

Fucking statistics, man.

So they shared a room together, a total disaster at the start. Both of them lost track of the arguments, they seemed so circular. There were fights over “Do your fucking laundry or at least pick it up from the floor, Nursey,” or “Dude. _ Fuck off _ with waking up so early. Chill with that shit,” or “If you don’t use headphones right now, I _ am _going over there and strangling you.”

Then there was also the bitter “Stop bringing people over and fuck somewhere else, it’s my room too,” and “Relax with the cockblocking. _ God, _” and “Seriously, it’s a new person every fucking weekend,” and “Why Poindexter, you jealous?” and the long silence that followed.

Derek remembers how, in that moment, everything had just fallen into place. How that weekend it was Will with Derek.

Everything snowballed after that. They didn’t do baby steps; they _ ran_. Gentle kisses. Passionate kisses. Movie nights. Dinner dates. Blowjobs in the locker room. Fighting. Angry sex. Making up. Apology sex. Study dates. Sunday mornings. Drunk kisses. Evening naps. Hockey. Hotel sex. Freaking out about meeting the family. Actually meeting the family. Everything going fine. Almost saying _ ‘I love you.’ _

Almost.

That was months ago. By now things are back to normal, or as normal as they can get. And Derek’s doing better, really. He’s been on dates (two) and has picked back up his weekend habit. It’s a good distraction. He never brings them back here, though, out of respect and self-preservation. So maybe some things have changed, in that regard.

Of course, it’s not like either of them could hit the erase button and forget what had happened. They’re friends again, sure, but Derek’s annoyingly self-aware of every word he says or touch he makes around Will, to Will. It fucking sucks but Derek had nearly three weeks of pitying himself after the breakup and he’s never letting himself go down that dark rabbit hole again.

Still, there are constant, unavoidable reminders of what they were. Like the scratches on the floorboards from pushing their twin sized beds together, in the center of their room, and the second set of scratches from pulling them back apart. Derek had forgotten about the scratches, had bought a rug to cover them.

He sits with his back against his packing boxes, now, legs stretched out in front of him. The single standing fan in the room does little against the summer heat, but provides a nice distracting noise as he stares at the marks on the floor. 

Constant, unavoidable reminders.

Derek sighs, climbs to his feet, and continues rolling up the rest of the rug. The Haus is especially quiet for a Friday afternoon, with some people having already left for break. Derek’s last final was yesterday but he’s not going home until tonight, needing all of today for packing.

Of course, Will’s side of the room is already neatly squared away. There are last-minute items he has to take care of, but he’s leaving right after his final, which should have just ended.

Three months in separate states will do them some good. It’ll become so much easier when they don’t have to see each other every day, sit through team breakfast in the morning, mutter civil goodnights to each other from opposite sides of a dark room.

Derek pushes his boxes to the corner and the thoughts out of his mind as he moves onto packing his closet. He manages that pretty quickly, zipping up his formal suits and dress shirts into their travel bags, dumping his shoes into one of the last few of the empty boxes. He’s rolling up his ties when there comes the sound of knuckles against the door frame --

That’s something they do now, always knock before entering, to try to avoid any awkward situations, like walking in on the other changing. In Derek’s opinion it’s stupid, and it’s not like something neither of them have seen before. Derek is _ well _acquainted with Will’s naked body, thanks. But he had gone along with the rules to try to make things easier, as if there’s any way to make this easier.

\-- “So your sister’s getting married,” Will says by way of greeting, only a couple steps into the room, one hand tucked under the strap of his backpack. 

Derek looks at him over his shoulder to acknowledge his presence, then turns his attention back to rolling ties, finding matching pairs of socks, keeping himself busy. “Yeah, Neil’s a good guy.” He falters as he tries to think of what else he should say. “They’re grad school sweethearts. Jasmine’s really excited.” He keeps his voice purposefully light, already knowing how much it’s going to suck being surrounded by _ love _and the wedding when he gets home. For obvious reasons. An open bar’s an open bar, though. He’s looking forward to that.

“I know. Your mom called today and told me all about it.” 

Oh. Derek’s back straightens out from his crouched position. So Will wasn’t just talking about Jasmine’s announcement post on Facebook, pictures of the excessively large ring and the smiling couple, a blooming garden in the backdrop. Then again, he supposes that was posted months ago.

Also, since when did his mom have Will’s number?

The floorboards groan as Will shifts his weight between feet. “She also asked me if I’m coming, since she never got an RSVP. I didn’t know I was invited.”

Derek pushes himself off the floor until he’s standing up, tugs at his tank top that’s stuck to his chest with sweat. Will’s watching from a distance--there’s always a distance between them, now--waiting for the response.

“I lost the card somewhere.” That’s a lie, Derek never gave it to him. Threw it in the trash. “I’ll tell her you can’t go, don’t worry about it.”

Will’s shaking his head, still hasn’t moved an inch. “It’s not that. Your mom, she-- she doesn’t know that we’ve broken up, does she.” There’s not even a hint of question to his tone.

Ah. Fuck. Will had seen through him, right through Derek’s chest and into his weak excuse of a spine. He hates how easily Will does that.

“It slipped my mind?” Derek tries.

It wouldn’t be the first time he fails.

Truthfully, he hadn’t lied on purpose. Just after they had broken up, his mom had asked if Will was visiting for spring break. He had said no, but failed to mention that Will would never be coming home with him again. She didn’t push for an explanation. Following that he’d just write off any questions about Will, answer everything vaguely, noncommittally. He’s camping with family. Working on his uncle’s boat. Caught the flu. Mom probably thought that they were just going through a rough patch.

Hell of a rough patch, that was.

“Look, I fucked up,” Derek’s quick to admit. Will quietly snorts like he’s thinking _ yeah, no shit_. “I’ll tell her after the wedding, kay? Before that probably wouldn’t…” He trails off, thinking of what the aftermath would be. Some scolding, some tears. Having to relieve the breakup, digging up the bitter memories. Everyone treating him different because his family _ knows _how fragile Derek’s heart is. “Yeah. Wouldn’t be the best timing.”

She really loves Will, it would break her heart. 

“Okay. Good,” Will agrees, and then it seems like he holds his breath. He still looks anxious from finals, but it’s not just that, a tense line set in his shoulders. Something else. There’s a bit of hesitation, before, “Because I told her I’d go. To the wedding.”

“You _ what._” If the room hadn’t felt suffocating before, it now feels like it’s squeezing all of Derek’s insides with a death-grip. An invisible boa constrictor is coiling around his throat. “The fuck, Poindexter.”

“No. You _do_ _not_ get to blame this on me,” Will snaps back, features harder than the sun that shoots through the windows, illuminating the space between them. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you had told her. I couldn’t-- ” He takes a deep breath, his chest rising then falling with the exhale. Takes a moment to collect himself. A different Will than the one who had stepped foot on campus freshman year, who would explode with the slightest provocation. His lips tighten, and then, “On the phone she sounded so happy, and she put me on the spot so that I couldn’t say no, you know?” 

Derek knows. She has a way of doing that, overwhelming you, catching you off guard without even meaning to. It’s part of the reason he never said anything. 

Will’s staring at him, and Derek stares back. It's the first time he’s really _ seen _Will since the break, been able to study his face without feeling like a creep. He looks at the minute details, the bags under his eyes, hair pushed around his forehead, lips slightly parted-- and he blanks. He used to be so good at reading Will.

_ What are you thinking? _

Will’s waiting for Derek to speak, so he does.

“I’ll buy your plane ticket.”

“That’s not-- _ Jesus_, Nurse. That’s what you’re going to say? Really?” Will’s looking at him like Derek just doesn’t _ get it _ and he doesn’t.

Doesn’t get it at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek hesitates on the stairs leading up to his own home. His ears are rushing with street sounds, the buzz of the city in the summer, a sticky sheen of sweat clinging to his hairline. His entire body is thrumming with anxiety. The excessive amount of caffeine he consumed today probably isn’t helping.

Okay. _Chill out_. He can totally do this.

He makes it up another step.

No he can’t.

_God_, he’s so screwed. 

Through the black bars of the window Derek catches a glimpse of the living room, his parents on the couch watching some program, awaiting his arrival. The screen casts a soft glow on their faces that captures their features like a silhouette, the curve of his father’s nose, the point of his mother’s chin. A peaceful night for the two of them, oblivious to how fucked Derek is. 

He wrings his hands together, cracks each knuckle. He needs to ring the bell eventually.

_Chill out_, he tells himself again, harsher this time. It doesn’t help.

He tries to think about it logically and comes to the conclusion that in the end it really isn’t up to him, how this whole thing plays out. It’s Derek versus the universe. A week of lying and avoiding anxiety-inducing interactions, then Will leaves for good; not only that, but a final farewell to the stupid lump of hope that sits in Derek’s stomach whenever Will pops in his mind. The last hoorah.

So really, there’s no good outcome, he just has to accept it. 

Time to face the music. 

**//**

After surviving two weeks back home, Derek allows himself a sigh of relief. 

Over the course of fourteen days, he’s fulfilled his post-finals sleep debt, caught up with friends--gone to lunches, dinners, clubs, and house shows with the select few childhood friends he cares about--and over the course of fourteen days he hasn’t given himself even a moment of alone time to swim in his thoughts. He’s binge-watched TV, crossed two books off his reading list, and it’s been good. 

He’s almost fooled himself into being happy, except for one tiny detail.

“What time are you picking up Will from the airport?”

Yeah, that part.

Derek takes his time to answer, staring at his bowl of cereal. All of the strawberries have sunk to the bottom and the flakes are starting to turn to mush. He wonders how they got the picture on the box to look so good. “Around six.”

Which is just in time for family dinner.

His mom hums and he hears the sink shut off. Then dishes being placed in the drying rack, the quiet_ clink _of porcelain. “You must be excited.”

“Totally,” Derek says, and if his delivery falls short, well. He blames it on not being a morning person.

Then for a second the kitchen feels too quiet.

Even though he was raised by the woman herself, Derek never knows what his mom is thinking, and a seed of doubt starts to sprout within him. Either she knows something’s off and doesn’t show it, or everything is perfectly ordinary in her world. How can she already be suspicious? When Derek looks up, her expression is neutral and pleasantly interested, but her eyes have always had a sly slant to them, something calculated. 

“Well, I should get going.” She pauses at the hallway mirror, arranging the hair that frames her face. She looks powerful, confident in herself and how the world sees her: masculine features, her thick eyebrows groomed in a way so that she never looks pleased, a sharp jaw, all angles, yet also soft and feminine-- subtle pink blush, elegant hands, her features softening when she smiles. She smoothes a hand over a fold in her dress and looks back to Derek. “It’ll be nice to have my boys home. It’s been so long, don’t you think?”

Like, why. _Why _ would she say ‘my boys’ and deliberately look at him, trying to gauge the reaction, if she _ didn’t _think something was wrong.

Then again, she always kind of does that.

God, Derek just wants this ordeal to be over, and it’s barely just started.

He makes a sound of faint agreement as he gathers cereal in his spoon, offering a lame “Yeah, have fun at work.”

Mom: 1

Derek: 0

**//**

Some time between the drive to the airport, the fifteen minutes he spent waiting for Will, fiddling with the dials of the radio just to opt for music from his phone, and seeing Will emerge from the terminal with a duffel bag slung over his shoulders, hair hidden under a worn baseball cap that shadows his face, it dawns on Derek that he is screwed. Like, absolutely boned.

Here’s why: everyone will be expecting them to act like a couple. Laugh together, be intimate, hold hands and smile at each other’s presence.

It hurts to think about.

Five minutes out, after a short greeting and the normal hospitalities (How was your flight? Good to see you. You can put the bag in the back seat) Derek considers turning the car around and dropping Will back off at the airport, throwing cash out the window for the ticket back to Maine, and then speeding away as fast as the car can accelerate. Instead he focuses on the soft music that fills the silence of the front seats. He can totally be mature about this.

Or at least, he can pretend to be. He’s perfected the art of fake chill.

“You look like you want to die,” Will says with no discernable emotion, rather an observation. 

_ Nearly _perfected the art of fake chill. Derek can’t help if he flinches a little and it takes him too long to think of a reply. “It’s nothing personal?”

“That’s convincing.”

“No, seriously. Am I looking forward to this week? Not at all. Would I rather have my nuts chopped off and served on a platter? Yeah, totally.” Will snorts at that. “But we’re going to make the best of the situation, yeah?”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“I dunno, raid my parent’s liquor cabinet?”

Will raises a brow, amused, “You do that all the time anyways.”

“But this time I won’t be _ alone_.”

With a huff of laughter Will drops the subject and leans his head against the window, taking in the familiar-yet-unfamiliar surroundings. They cross the bridge over the East River into Lenox Hill, the dense buildings seeming like they’ve been squeezed together, trees planted on the sidewalk every few meters, strategically placed.

“Who’s home?”

“No one. Mom and Dad are at work. Neil and Jasmine don’t fly in until tomorrow.” Because they went on a pre-wedding vacation. Derek’s pretty sure that’s what the honeymoon is for, but whatever. Jasmine wanted to, so they did.

And people think _ Derek’s _spoiled.

Upon arrival, Derek doesn’t know whether to be relieved that they’re the only ones home. On one hand, there’s no sudden interrogation when they walk through the door (prolonging the imminent, really), but on the other, it’s just the two of them until his parents get back.

In the past it would’ve been a blessing to have the house to themselves. Derek has a king-sized bed and a _ great _sex playlist, but that was then and this is now.

He’ll just treat this week like a sleepover. A G-rated, no touching allowed sleepover. With exceptions in front of family. Behind this closed bedroom door, though? They’re broken up. Like walking through a portal between worlds.

“I can sleep on the floor, if you want,” Derek offers, standing by his closet. It feels like he’s hovering too much already, but what else is he supposed to do, bring Will to his room then just wander off to some other part of the house?

Should he have done that?

Will looks up from searching through his duffel bag, raises a brow. “What’s the point of that?”

“To avoid…” Derek gesticulates in the air, hand motioning from one side of the mattress to the other, like that means anything. “Weirdness.”

“I don’t think sharing a bed is going to kill us, Nursey.” He’s seemed unruffled from their current predicament, but there’s no way he’s that chill about it, right? _ Poindexter? _Not freaking out?

Maybe the world really has flipped upside down.

“It’s cool, just wanted to put the offer out there.” Derek shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. The passing sound of a wailing ambulance pulls his attention to his window that faces the street, looking over the sidewalk and across to the row of identical townhouses.

The siren has nearly faded into the distance completely by the time Will asks, “Do you think it’s weird?”

In Derek’s opinion, this entire situation _ oozes _weird. Unnatural. Completely strange. And probably some other synonyms. 

But he doesn’t say that.

“A bed’s a bed.”

Maybe they’ll even build a pillow wall down the middle. My side, your side. They’ll sleep in the same bed with no implications, no deeper meaning. 

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

“Mom’s making kebabs tonight. She remembers how much you liked them last time,” Derek mentions once it feels like the silence has stretched too long. 

Last time Will had been stealing pieces of chicken off Derek’s plate and laughing over spilled tzatziki. They had stayed up watching shitty nineties movies, waking up pressed together and dozing late into the afternoon. Less of that, this time around.

“When does she get back?”

“Probably around seven.”

Will nods, and like that they’ve run out of things to talk about. Derek refuses to mention the weather, because that’d be particularly pathetic and he still has some dignity left (but not a lot) so they’re reduced to these civil conversations that remind Derek a lot of talking to a family member you don’t really know but are forced to get along with.

Problem is him and Will never quite nailed the ‘getting along’ part.

The smell of cardamom and saffron wafts through the house by seven-thirty and Derek peels himself off the leather armchair in the study, dog-earring the page of his book (because books are meant to be _ loved _ and _ worn _) and tucking it back into the shelf. Will hadn’t followed him to the study, had instead opted to unpack his belongings and fill in the empty drawer Derek cleared out knowing Will’s the type to settle into a space and not live out of a duffel bag--

And it’s things like that Derek’s never going to be able to get out of his head and it's cruel: Will’s favorite movies, his preferred toothpaste, how many Red Bulls he goes through before an exam, how he always carries allergy meds with him in the spring. The parts of Will that are stuck in Derek’s brain, wasted space he can’t get back.

\--Unpacking couldn’t have taken Will a full hour, so he must’ve sleuthed about or found something to do. But wondering what Will was up to would violate their very well-defined rules of cohabitation. As far as Derek’s concerned, they’re two different species inhabiting the same exhibit at the zoo. 

Derek pauses midway down the stairs, where he can see light from the kitchen spilling onto the hardwood of the dark living room, the chattered bits of conversation wrapped with the warm summer air. First his mom’s voice, then Will’s, then Dad’s. Will says something and his parents laugh. A happy sound that gives Derek nothing but shame.

It would be so much easier if they didn’t like him. His mom had once said _ ‘he’s good for you, Derek.’ _ And Will’s just that. _ Good _. The type of guy you’d want to bring home to your parents, who’s charming in the bashful sort of way, when he drops his eyes and smiles like he can’t take the attention. He’s smart and well-mannered and actually a good conversationalist when he wants to be. He’s the ex that’ll always be considered part of the family and it’s unfair how easily Will does it, insert himself into your life until the next moment he’s gone.

“Starting dinner without me?” Derek asks, entering the dining room to find the table already set, his dad and Will sitting across from each other, pausing their conversation at his presence. Derek’s body works on auto-pilot as he nearly claims the chair next to his dad, so used to distancing himself from Will’s immediate proximity, that his brain feels like it actually stutters. He pats his dad on the shoulder and hopes the interaction doesn’t come off too weird as he takes his place next to Will.

God, usually he’s only this paranoid when he’s high at home, and he’s completely sober right now. It sucks. Life sucks.

Mom enters after he sits, carrying a tray she places in the center of the table. “We were just about to call you from the study.”

“All good. I’m here now.” Derek looks between his dad and Will. “So, what were you guys talking about?”

Will’s distracted with scooping himself rice when he answers, clearing his throat first, “Nothing you’d be interested in. Boats and baseball.”

Derek knows his dad likes boats and owns a couple jerseys, and Will has his whole lobster thing, but he’s never expressed any interest in the sport, “Baseball?”

“I used to play in the spring, before I started doing club hockey.”

“And one of the company’s partners offered us really nice seats for a Yankees game,” Mom adds, taking her seat at the table. “But Will won’t accept our invitation,” she says in a put-on annoyed tone, though she’s smiling.

Will glances at Derek before looking resolutely across the table. “I would love to but I’ll be busy with work. Is that Greek salad?”

They pass around food and pleasantries and Will talks for most of it, fielding questions about the end of the semester and his summer so far. Derek tries to not act surprised when Will says something even he hadn’t known about, like how Will’s found an internship that starts later in the month and goes until the end of August, or that he has a weekend job tutoring high school kids in math.

Derek’s quiet, not having much conversation to offer, pushing around the food on his plate. He laughs that weird, awkward laugh when everyone around you is laughing and enjoying themselves, and you’re just wanting to blend in, forcing the air upwards and out of your throat in something that resembles amusement. Though he tries at first, his attempts of appearing interested disappear when Will turns the discussion around and asks his parents about their days at work, if there’s any interesting clients like usual. Has the neighbor’s dog stopped barking at night? How is remodeling the guest bathroom going?

He must zone out a little because he barely registers he’s the one being spoken to when Will says, “Pass the rice, babe?”

There’s no hesitation. The word falls so easily from Will’s mouth that it seems like it’s always there, for Derek, always has been. But it never was; it was always Derek’s thing to annoy Will with pet names and just pay the fines for the sake of seeing Will’s reaction, eliciting a scoff (“What’s good, hot stuff”) or sputtered protests (“You’re cute when you’re mad, fire crotch”). 

It feels entirely wrong but sounds contradictorily natural and Derek doesn’t have any choice but to act like it’s the norm and offer a pleasant smile as he hands over the bowl of rice. He would try to say something back but he’s afraid his voice would get caught on the lump in his throat.

Next time, though? Derek’s going to be ready. He’ll be the best fake boyfriend _ ever_.

Just you wait and see.

**//**

The lamps at either side of Derek’s bed do little against the encompassing darkness. Their townhouse is historic, afterall, or whatever term realtors use to make the lack of overhead lighting sound charming. Even then, living here really dwindles down to the location. Live in a nice neighborhood, send your kids to private school, navigate New York in a comfortable bubble, the constant motion of the city making the days less monotonous. Derek’s reached the part of adulthood where he can notice these things but not quite understand their meaning. He knows he’ll be an independent adult one day soon, trying to find a home and settle into a new life. Follow a career path, start to think about kids, get a pet as a trial run.

It was more fun to think about, back when he thought he knew who he’d be spending his future with.

Late May means the sun sets by a little after eight, and his curtains do a good enough job of blocking out the persistent street lights. By ten the house is calm, his parents settling into bed for an early morning the next day, and then the next, the same after that. If you listen you can catch the way the floorboards groan or the rush of water through the pipes, their bedroom situated above his, the choreographed sounds of a day winding down and succumbing to sleep after years of living the same routine.

There aren’t any words he can pick up on, but maybe his parents have fallen into a silent rhythm. There must be some point in marriage where you run out of things to talk about, right?

He listens across the hall to the toilet flush, the sink turn on, an electric toothbrush, and then back off. There’s soft steps across the hallway and Will closes the door behind him, until it’s the two of them in Derek’s bedroom, the quiet atmosphere all too intimate.

Derek keeps his eyes on his laptop and his earbuds plugged in although there’s no music playing, he’s just been staring at his music library for the past ten minutes now.

The bed dips and Will’s beside him, within reach. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt that Derek’s certain will be tossed aside by morning, the overhead fan doing little against the summer humidity that clings to Derek like a second layer of skin.

This was always Derek’s favorite Will, the subdued and bleary-eyed Will who wears Walmart moccasins for slippers in the winter, when the floorboards of the Haus get really cold, and old hoodies from his high school with its mascot on it. The Will that always has a bottle of water on the nightstand, who double checks that his alarm is set before folding into bed, sheets and hair rumpled, the lines of his body softening.

Derek keeps a steady focus on his laptop.

“Dinner was really nice.” Will’s nose is pointed to the ceiling, staring straight ahead. Every so often, a car will pass down the street, a single beam of light slipping through the crack between the curtain and window, the light distorted and racing across the ceiling in a quick flash.

“Yeah, Mom’s been spoiling us with home cooked meals recently.”

“Remember last time when we tried to make falafels?” Amusement laces itself around Will’s words, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“And set an entire pot of oil on fire?” Derek lets himself soften too, at the memory of sheer panic when they miscalculated the smoke point of olive oil and nearly filled the kitchen with flames. “Not our best idea… Congrats on the internship, by the way,” he says after a while. “You deserve it, man.”

Will’s expression has sobered up from the amusement into a content state, smile more subtle than before.

“Thanks. If it goes well…” The sheets move with Will’s shrug, but he’s hopeful, for once. It’s nice to see. “Who knows. You working for your dad again?”

“Yeah. Starting after the wedding I’ll be Derek Nurse: Administrative Intern. It’s super glamorous. I get to use the fancy coffee maker and bring people their drinks.”

Will snorts and his eyes flick over to Derek. “Shut up, you know you love dressing up for that shit.” For a second Derek lapses and catches Will’s attention, but pulls his focus away immediately and feels like a fifteen year old on his first date again, too nervous to hold eye contact. 

“I _ do _ look good in a suit.” Derek’s glad he sounds normal, contributing to banter. This is familiar. He knows how to handle this. “Even if it’s just to file papers and return emails all day, _ someone’s _gotta be the hottest in the office. ”

“How considerate of you.”

“Everything I do, I do for the people.”

Will shoves him with a lighthearted “Fuck off” and for a moment Derek’s hit with deja vu, taken back to the Haus and their room that definitely wasn’t designed to fit two people, to late mornings and lazily drawing patterns into each other’s skin.

He’s pulled out of it when Will rolls over to his side suddenly, his back to Derek, the empty space in the middle of the bed returning. “Night, Nursey.”

“Night, Dex,” Derek echoes back, moving his laptop to the nightstand and turning onto his side, mirroring Will. He shoves his hands far beneath his pillow and under his head so they don’t end up anywhere they shouldn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

Pregnancy glow is a thing Derek’s heard of. Shitty has a weird amount of pregnancy knowledge he apparently accumulated from two semesters of a women and gender studies course that he’s more than eager to share. Derek wasn’t paying attention that particular bus ride, but it’s something to do with hormones.

If premarital glow is a thing too, he’s pretty sure his sister’s got it.

Jasmine’s bounding up the front steps, her jewelry clattering against itself, heels stomping up the steps, all white blouse with embroidered flowers growing up the sleeves, large earrings dangling to her shoulders, always put together, and then some. Neil's in tow carrying both their luggage on his back. Pretty typical entrance for Jasmine, all things considered.

Derek opens the door for them and is immediately met with a mouthful of curls that smell like shea and coconut, his sides squeezed too tightly for it to be considered a hug.

A death grip, quite possibly.

“Hey Jaz,” Derek greets, with all the breath knocked out of him.

She squeals a “Derek!” that’s muffled into his chest, then pops her head back up for air, examining him. “You should shave. Your stubble is all patchy.”

“Thanks, missed you too.” Neil catches up, Derek greeting him with a “Sup Neil, welcome to the fam.”

Neil’s a few inches shorter, the top of his head coming to Derek’s nose. He’s a stocky man with a clean shaven beard, hair gathered in a short ponytail at the back of his head, neatly groomed though his eyebrows are unruly, sweeping up at the corners. Black curls of chest hair peek above his shirt buttons, the pendant of his gold necklace tucked behind the collar. Though Derek doesn’t know him very well, he seems likable.

They shake hands, Neil’s palms sweaty. Poor guy, he’s _ willingly _marrying Jasmine. “Ah, cheers, but not officially family yet. After Saturday though…”

Jasmine makes another squeal of excitement which hurts his ears but Derek’s just glad to have personal space again. The couple is standing pressed to each other, Jasmine’s hand rested on Neil’s chest, showing off the ring. “And where’s your boy?”

“The gym.”

“And you’re not there too?”

“We’re not codependent,” Derek says dryly, though he understands why she’d think so; during Will’s visit for New Years they were disgustingly domestic, going grocery shopping and doing laundry together, never a minute alone.

She seems playfully unconvinced, always one to poke the fire. “You sure about that?”

For a split second he thinks screw the plan, let’s get it over with. He nearly tells her about the breakup and the _miscommunication _(that’s what he’s calling it, at least) surrounding the nature of their relationship. Start with ‘_Actually, about that_…’ She would understand, to some degree, tell him he’s a complete dumbass and pull him into another hug. 

He doesn’t. They’re three years apart and mostly annoyed each other growing up, but now that they’re past their teenage years he can admit that he cares about her, or whatever. So he bites his tongue and smoothes away the inner conflict.

Smoothes it away as best as he can, though there’s always a Dex-shaped wrinkle.

He retreats to the kitchen where he was before, his leftovers nearly heated in the microwave, and overhears a “Careful, you’re gonna fall” followed by a grunted “I’ve got it, don’t worry” as they try to carry their belongings up the stairs.

The chicken’s lukewarm in the middle but Derek eats it anyway, sitting at the table alone, after pushing aside a clearing. There’s papers with scribbled notes and magazine clippings covering the table’s surface, numbers of the caterer, florist, and venue coordinator written down. Pickup time for decorations, delivery time for the cake. His mom had started to check through the place cards and make sure every name on the guest list was accounted for, but only made it halfway before having to leave for work.

Derek practices his ‘I’m so happy to be here at my sister’s wedding’ smile for photos, catches his reflection from a glimpse at the toaster, and surrenders to eating his half-heated leftovers.

He should’ve taken that acting class last semester.

Will returns from the gym down the street and heads directly to the shower, by the sounds of it. Derek pours himself another cup of coffee, scrolling through the news app for anything interesting with his other hand. Jasmine and Neil enter the kitchen, Neil on his phone talking to relatives in alternating Hindi and English, taking a seat at the end of the island. Jasmine fills the kettle while muttering about the lack of tea selection. Derek’s hit with the realization that the house has been nearly silent for his past two weeks of being home. Most of the time it was just him, and by nature he’s not a loud person. Now though, the atmosphere’s shifted and it’s kind of… nice? As much as Derek savours his alone time, there’s something nostalgic about family crowding into a kitchen.

He hadn’t noticed Will walk in, but there’s an arm reaching around Derek to grab his coffee. Derek looks up from the article about some opioid epidemic to catch Will take a sip and scrunch his face at the bitterness. His hair is still damp from the shower, sticking up in some places from the half-hearted towel dry, sections of it still wet and sticking to his forehead.

“Creamer in the fridge, and get your own coffee,” Derek says, holding out his hand until Will surrenders the cup back to his possession. He continues to skim through the article, though his focus is more on the reunion happening between Will and Jasmine. Will congratulates her, introduces himself to Neil, and Derek’s so intent on trying to look preoccupied with his article he freezes when he lifts the cup up to his lips. Because Will’s lips had just been there, which isn’t a big deal, but now Derek’s lips are there, and _ why _is his brain making this a big deal?

Will sits on the barstool next to Derek and leans with both elbows on the countertop, mug held between both hands, knee bumping into Derek’s leg, and _ God_, forget what he thought earlier, Derek needs personal space right now, but Jasmine and Neil are right beside them, and he feels caged in. He stands up so suddenly he’s sure they’re all staring but he refuses to look anywhere but the sink, pouring the rest of his drink down the drain. His brain doesn’t need any more stimulation.

“So do you guys have any plans this week?” Jasmine asks evenly, and Derek imagines her eyes burning holes into the back of his head as she sits on her perch, clasping her English Breakfast with talons, always attentive to everyone in the room. “You received the schedule I sent, right? You forwarded that, right? Derek? Brunch with Neil’s family on Wednesday and rehearsal dinner Friday night?”

An entire timetable for the week, addresses and names of people Derek’s never met, places he’s never been to. Last fitting for the dress, hair appointment, movie night with the bridesmaids, the important events written in dusty rose (“It’s not _ just pink_, Derek”). He couldn’t be the only one who found the whole thing annoying.

“Chill, your bridezilla is showing.” 

“I have it,” Will offers as an actual answer, shooting Derek a look. “Very organized. Though I think I’ll skip the Thursday mani-pedis. There are a few museums I want to go to, and I’ve never taken a ferry to Coney Island. Might as well be a tourist while I’m here.”

A small detail no one notices but Derek dwells on: ‘while I’m here’_ for the last time_. After this, Will has no need to visit New York City, no friends or relatives to visit, and he’s always hated how loud the streets are at night, the loud horns and engines Derek’s come to associate with _ home_. It’s a vastly different world from Maine, with the chirping of crickets Will loves, keeping his windows open to hear them better in the evening, regardless of if it lets the sticky heat of summer slip into his room.

It’s more evidence they’re too opposite. Derek should have known they were doomed from the start.

“You guys going to Times Square?” Neil asks, after ending the phone call.

“God, no. I’m thinking somewhere air-conditioned, at least while it’s hot out.”

“The MoMA?” Jasmine suggests sweetly, and Derek knows it’s the last thing Will would want to do. Contemporary art frustrates him (“This is stupid. It’s _ literally _a white canvas, and it’s worth millions?” “It’s about the size and medium. And there’s different shades of white. You gotta look at the strokes.” A close-up squint. “Yeah, still stupid.”)

“I’ll consider it,” Will says. Translation: fuck no.

**//**

As well as Derek knows him, Will still surprises him from time to time. They go to Brooklyn, buying sunscreen and snacks from a bodega before Will leads them to the botanic garden. Will dutifully takes pictures he sends in his family groupchat. They take an uber to the Coney Island boardwalk where tourists shuffle between flashing attractions and they buy deep-fried oreos that burn the roofs of their mouths. When the sun sets they board a ferry and watch the twinkling boardwalk fade into the horizon.

It’s Derek favorite day of summer so far.

**//**

The happiness doesn’t last long, once they return home, standing on the front steps.

“We should probably--” Will says, offering his hand, waiting for Derek to twine their fingers.

“Yeah, probably,” Derek agrees while his body thumps with no, no, _ no. _

He’d almost forgotten how well their hands piece together.

“We’re home,” Derek announces, though he doesn’t raise his voice much. The house is unusually dark, and he can’t tell if it’s his sister or mom sitting on the couch, the back of their heads too similar. He gets shushed, and that’s Jasmine’s voice scolding him:

“_Shh. _ We’re watching _ Pride and Prejudice_.” 

Will leans into Derek’s side, faces nearly pressed together as he cautiously whispers “I’m going to put this away,” lifting the small bag of souvenirs he picked up throughout the day, “Be right back.”

His breath is warm against Derek’s neck and Derek nods wordlessly, watching his figure retreat up the stairs. Once he's gone Derek wipes his hands on his leg in an attempt to remove the lingering touch from his mind, and _G__od_, is he that touch-starved? That desperate?

Eyes still adjusting to the dark, Derek pats around for the bowl to drop his keys in, stepping out of his shoes and leaving them in the entry. Aside from the glow of the TV screen, the only light comes from the kitchen, shining yellow. Not sure what to do with himself, he wanders towards it where he's met by his mother and the heavy scent of buttery popcorn.

"Oh good, you're back." She presses the warm bowl into his chest and a kiss to his cheek. "Here, take this. Tell me about your day later. We saved a spot for you and Will on the couch."

They did; Jasmine and Neil are squeezed into the armchair--wholly unnecessary, considering they have _two_ couches, one of which their parents have claimed, Mom's feet now resting in Dad's lap--but he's grateful regardless, for the extra space for him and Will.

And so he's caught off guard when Will returns, Derek listening to each soft footstep descending the stairs until Will's standing above him, and Derek's watching the screen but only paying attention to Will as he squeezes himself into the cushions, leaving no room between them. 

Derek's entire body feels all too warm and he holds absolutely still as Keira Knightley snubs Mr. Darcy. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Will wrestles a little, getting comfortable, if that's even possible. Is he actually chill about this? Like, why haven't his ears turned red as he's fumbled with the awkwardness of the situation?

His head drops onto Derek's shoulder, and Jasmine _awe_'s. Either at them or the movie, he's not sure.

Derek shouldn't ask himself, but he does: is Will really that unaffected?

For the whole film he feels trapped though his thoughts are far detached, drifting to dark places he wishes they didn't go.

How was the breakup on Will's end? The entire time, he _desperately _wanted to ask Chowder "So, how's he doing?" but Derek was the least deserving person to know. Outwardly, Will appeared normal. Maybe quieter, immediately after, but that could be because Derek only ever saw him at team breakfast and practices, in large groups where he always tends to keep to himself. Of course they saw each other around the Haus, even as much as Derek tried to avoid it. Derek would spend more time at the library, agree to plans with classmates more willingly, anything to keep him occupied and away. He did well academically and made new friends that semester, but he never felt worse.

His point: Will seemed to have been unaffected. They talked less to each other, until they reached a point where they seldom talked directly, barring hockey, and Will was just fine. His life continued as normal. He knew that Derek was quick to rebound, going to bars and staying the night in unknown places, sometimes returning with hickeys or in clothes that didn't belong to him, and Will didn't care.

Derek didn't matter anymore. That's what hurts him the most.

He's not depressed, he's decided. It's more of a-- and he hates to admit this-- it's like he's in mourning (And yes, _Lardo_, he knows he's being dramatic. He's self aware, at least).

So Derek's mourning-- a deep sorrow for the loss of a loved one, even if he's sitting right there.


	4. Chapter 4

When Derek was sixteen, he sustained a knee injury that landed him in the hospital with a Vicodin prescription. Without the drugs, the pain was just beyond the point of unbearable.

His parents worried over his recovery as he hobbled around on crutches, consulting physical therapy experts and talking to doctors in hushed conversations over the phone, dropping silent if he entered the room. He heard them anyway. Do you think he'll play again? How soon? Yes, he's walking better. And how much will that cost?

Soon enough, he was taking drugs to numb more than the pain. School was more tolerable, and his family irritated him less. He was mellowed. _Chilled out_.

He received two surgeries that same year to fix his knee, and the prescriptions flooded in. Vicodin with Oxycodone. Percocet.

When he was medicated he turned into a zombie, and when he was sober he was depressed. 

He had gone to a classmate's lake house that summer, a week before his junior year was to start. The guy had taken the keys from his parents and thrown a party, girls in bikinis swinging their feet off the dock, a gaggle of teenagers circled around the bonfire. Inside the house was a keg, handles of liquor lined up on the kitchen counter, the sickly-sweet scent of fruit punch and chasers.

More discreet were the lines of coke in the bathroom. A boy with his head in the toilet was foaming from the mouth and Derek didn't care. He raided each bathroom's medicine cabinet, and when he found nothing he began to drink.

He staggered around, completely out of it. His breaths were shallow as he struggled to get air. Lauryn Gruber dragged him into a bedroom and he can't remember the rest.

**//**

It’s the beautiful hour of the evening where the temperature dips and the sun starts to hang low, only a trickle of people wandering the streets. This far up, the air feels cleaner and the cars look smaller. The Pomeranian on a leash below them looks like the size of a cotton ball.

They’re on Derek’s quote unquote ‘balcony,’ two lounge chairs on the rooftop with a pathetic potted plant in the corner, ashes stubbed into its soil, leaves wilted brown and far past any hope for revival. They’re the only ones here.

Will’s standing in front of him, the sun shining on his skin, painting him golden against the blue sky. He’s looking out onto the street, peeling off paper bits of the Heineken label absentmindedly. Some of the shreds float away, swept by the rolling breeze and trickling downward, carried off in a fluttering sort of dance.

Derek, though stretched out on the lounge chair farthest from the railing, is still only a mere few feet away from Will, the balcony too small. He can’t sit still, an itch in him somewhere he can’t pinpoint, a desire to tug Will’s belt loop, a silent beg to _come closer_.

He can’t. Derek reminds himself. I can’t, I can’t.

Will’s squinting against the sun as he studies the surroundings. “Where’s Central Park? Relative to here.”

It takes a while for Derek to come up with an answer. “Like, six blocks down sixty-second street. That way.”

Will nods, and squints in the direction Derek had pointed.

“You wanna go?” Derek offers listlessly, not wanting to move.

“Not really. Nature here sucks." He shrugs. "I was just curious.”

“Yo, don’t disrespect. We have a tree on our part of the sidewalk and two bushes by the front door. It’s a fucking safari out here.”

Will laughs, which always takes Derek by surprise, the sound gone too soon as Will falls into silence, lifting his beer to his lips. He takes a swig then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You should see Maine.”

“I’ve been, if you recall.”

Will makes a _duh _sound, “Not what I’m talking about. _The coastline_. Not my small-ass hometown.”

“Hey, I liked it.”

“Sure, but _the coastline_. The rocks and trees and crashing waves are just--” he doesn’t spend any time looking for the right word, going right past. “And the cliff views over the ocean. You have to see it in person.”

Desperately, Derek wishes he could.

“In the winter, when the ice freezes,” Will continues, “it turns into a whole new place. I’d always make sure to bring my skates whenever we visited my uncle. Skating out there, with the forest all white with snow… man.” He leans forward, body long and languid, dangling over the edge as he watches the passersby beneath them. “It just feels so right. Like it’s where I’m meant to be, you know?”

“Would you want to live there?”

Will contemplates the question as he rolls the beer bottle between his hands. “I think so. Not yet, but one day. I mean, I’ll always visit, but it’s just not in the cards for me right now. I don’t-- I don’t really know what my plan is.”

Derek hums. He knows that feeling all too well. “You could go pro."

“You think so?”

“For sure. No cap.”

“Thanks.”

Derek shrugs. He means it. Will has a determination Derek hasn't really seen in anyone else, always trying to prove to himself that he can skate harder, think faster. He doesn't play for the praises of others.

“Or take a gap year." It’s what Derek intends on doing, after next spring. Some time to figure things out and discover who he wants to be.

“I’m leaning toward grad school, but the student debt… I really don’t know.”

“Everything’s gonna work out,” Derek says in all sincerity, “You’re gonna live a happy, nice life, man. I can tell. You’re a good person. Your future family’s gonna be really lucky.”

Will looks at Derek sadly, on the verge of speaking when his phone starts to ring. His body straightens out instantly as his hand shoots for his pocket. “Sorry, it’s my mom. Mind if I--?”

Derek makes the ‘go for it’ motion and turns his attention to his armrest, where he previously abandoned a half-rolled a joint. He scoops the rest of the shake onto the paper and pinches it between his index and thumb, pressing firmly, rolling it across his fingertips.

“Hi, Mom… Ha, missed you too.” Will takes on the tone of voice he always does with his family, more open, unabashed, and hunches over, resting his elbows on the railing. “Yeah, I’m doing well. Have you seen the pictures I’ve sent?” A pause, he ducks his head, “Yeah, that’s my favorite one too… Nursey’s here, by the way....” His eyes flick over his shoulder and they meet. “Yeah, of course… Things are good.”

Derek tries to appear uninterested, to give Will some privacy, but his hands work on auto-pilot as he strains his ears.

“Mom, I told you, _I don’t know _… Yes, I promise… Oh, hi James… That’s really cool, you’ll have to show me when I get home. Can you put Mom back on the phone?" He hiccups, holding the phone as far away as possible and taking a deep breath. "Mom, I have to hang up, we’re going to Central Park… Yes, I will… Okay, bye… Love you too… Bye.” He ends the call and releases a heavy breath which turns into another hiccup, watching _‘CALL ENDED’ _blink across his screen before turning to Derek. “Mom says hi, and she hopes your break is going well.”

****"Really?"

"Yes?" Will says, confused.

"Oh, word."

Will gives him a strange look and Derek surrenders. "I don't know, man. I thought she’d hate me.”

"What? Of course not.” Will studies Derek’s face and sees he’s unconvinced. “Seriously. She knows things ended on good terms. And my cousins still worship you.”

He tries, very hard, to not dwell on _‘good terms_.’

“I’m very worshipable.”

“You bribed them with cake and ice cream.”

“You still don’t have proof of that.”

“I found _ice cream wrappers _in the _trash can_. That’s evidence.”

“You can’t connect me to the scene of this crime. I have an alibi.”

“You’re full of shit,” Will laughs, stepping over empty bottles and stumbling into the lounge chair next to Derek’s. With his right hand, Derek twists the end of the joint, lighter flickering in the left. He gets it burning and holds it to his mouth, breathing in sharp and greedily. It glows bright and crackles, his lungs filling with a thick white smoke. Ash falls onto his lap. He holds it in front of him, for a moment, watching the tip turn from red to black, until he finally exhales the used-up cloud. He offers it to Will, who shakes his head.

"Suit yourself." Derek flicks the lighter and takes another puff, joint hanging in his mouth when he says "Getting old sucks, man," a small cloud of smoke escaping between each word.

"We're twenty-one."

"Like, physically, yeah. Mentally, though? I'm like, fifty and having a mid-life crisis."

Will snorts, amused. His eyes are a little out of focus. "About what?"

Derek thinks that the answer should be obvious. "And when we die," he continues, not addressing the question, "shit's not even over. Dawg, do you know how expensive funerals are? _Thousands_. God damn." Derek taps off the ash, blackened flakes of rolling paper drifting to the floor. "In my will I'm going to specifically ask to be-- I dunno, just _fuckin' chucked _into the ocean."

"Yeah?" Will asks, and suddenly he's laughing hard enough to make his body shake.

"Yeah," Derek's already pretty zooted, and he's laughing too.

Derek wonders if anyone sees or hears them, laughing like idiots on this rooftop. He chooses to think that in this moment, they're the only ones in New York.

"If you need help picking a good spot," Will's barely sobered up from the fit of laughter, residual titters as he talks, "I know some pretty good cli--"

"Cliffs in Maine!" Derek cheers.

For no reason they both think it's the funniest thing in the world, laughing hard enough no sound comes out, wheezes of air that leaves their stomachs feeling sore, wiping invisible tears from their eyes.

Will chugs the rest of his beer and adds it to the pile on the ground.

It's silent for a while, just street sounds and the hum of a nearby generator. Neither of them are sure of how much time passes.

Stretched out and high, the day's last sunlight shining warmly on his face, Derek's happy. He knows it won't last; the high is temporary and the sun is setting, but he's happy.

"I missed this," Will says after a while, who knows how long.

Derek peels an eye open to inspect him, and Will looks unsure if he should have said anything at all.

"Me too." Derek's own voice is hoarse, his tongue feeling heavy and strange from cotton mouth.

He waits for Will to say something else, after this. He doesn't.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek still hurts, but at the same time, he's so quick to forgive Will, to fall into this fantasy they've created where they're still dating, maneuvering life together.

Derek hates himself for it.

“This is really unnecessary,” Will complains.

“I had to do it, too.”

“But you’re a _ groomsman_. And I already have a suit.”

A hand-me-down grey suit from Will’s older brother that’s too long at the ankles and has _shoulder pads_.

Not that Derek’s an expert or anything, but he knows a thing or two.

Shoulder pads. Really.

He doesn’t make a comment, opting to take a sip of the tea that one of the employees served him while waiting for Will’s measurements to be taken. The staff has been overly accommodating, probably because his dad had called ahead and talked to the owner. Apparently they’re friends, hence the special treatment. He doubts that a mixed kid in sweatshorts and backwards cap showing up here always elicits such an enthusiastic reception.

The whole thing feels reminiscent of _Pretty Woman_, in all honestly. Richard Gere? DILF. Hands down.

Derek shrugs. “Another suit never hurts."

“But I don’t _ need _one," Will counters, arms stretched out. He's already lost the battle. 

“You wanna argue with my mom on this one?” Derek says anyways.

Admittedly this was Derek’s idea, but Will doesn’t have to know that. It’s his parent’s money, and Mom was delighted at the suggestion, which is why they find themselves at a men’s suit shop on the border of SoHo. It's a sleek store, with lights built into the shelves, the varnish shining brilliantly on the dark wood. The chair he's sitting on is made from a stiff velvet in an uncomfortable Art Deco design, the arm rests completely unusable, purely for aesthetic, and they definitely look out of place, the two of them here.

Will doesn’t answer and Derek hides behind another sip, trying to squash his amusement. Things became especially entertaining when they got to measuring the inseam and Will nearly jumped at how close the tape measure got to his crotch.

Comical, even.

“You’ll need one for interviews anyway, for all the job offers you get after graduation. Right?” Derek looks to the tailor, a middle aged man with spiky grey hair and bright red rimmed glasses, who readily agrees.

“A well-made suit can transform a man’s first impression.”

“See, babe? Can’t argue with the professional.” Once he says it, Derek wishes he could pull the words back into his mouth and swallow them whole. _Babe_.

He didn't mean to. There’s no family nearby, no need to pretend they’re anything they aren’t.

Problem is it doesn't _feel _like pretending, when no one's around. It feels like six months ago when they were wandering around New York aimlessly, stopping in Cafes for toasted almond croissants and warm drinks, Will's nose turned bright pink from the cold, wearing Derek's beanie.

If Will notices, it doesn’t show. He mutters something about standing uncomfortably in front of a mirror for five minutes as he accepts a pile of slacks to try on, the coats and ties hung up on a nearby hook, and closes the curtain to change in privacy.

Derek releases a shallow sigh that sends a ripple across the surface of the tea. He can't let this happen.

He sorts himself out as he waits for Will to change. 

The first option’s a charcoal set that’s nothing spectacular, but reliable. Good for any occasion, the skinny tie disappearing beneath the jacket’s buttons. Mature, yet timeless. The second feels like something for an award show, a shiny black material that contrasts the stark white of the button-up. The tailor clicks his tongue and tells Will to try the next one.

This time around Derek stands up when Will exits the changing room, and really his body should stop betraying him. 

But he can’t help it, with Will looking at himself in the mirror and fidgeting with his sleeves in a deep blue suit that shouldn’t make his skin look so warm and compliment his hair so well. The fabric stretches across his shoulders and shrinks along with the dip of his back, and life isn’t fair at all.

“Mind if I--” Derek asks, approaching slowly, like he's afraid to startle a wild creature. Will stops his attempts and complies, nodding a little, eyes following each of Derek’s movements. 

Derek keeps his focus deliberately steady, pulling the shirt cuffs to peek from beneath the coat sleeves, ignoring how his fingertips accidentally brush Will’s wrists, or how he can feel Will’s breath fan across his hands as he unbuttons the top button of the white dress shirt, after tossing the tie to the side.

He steps back and shoves his hands into his pockets, hoping that they’ll stop shaking, _please, stop shaking_, as Will returns to looking at himself in the mirror, offering a soft “Thanks.”

Derek composes himself, flicking his attention to the tailor, who’s onlooking with approval.

He allows himself a greedy moment to admire the view. “Think this is the one?”

Will twists around, lifts his arms, tests it out. Nods to himself in assurance. “I think so.”

“Do a twirl.”

“No.”

“Just a little one.”

“Not happening.”

Derek chuckles and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, going for something casual to cover the sudden knot in his stomach. “It’d look good with my brown oxfords. _ Ideally_, you’d let me buy you a pair--”

“Again, not happening.”

“Yeah, I know.” Derek wishes his voice didn’t sound so fond. After an attempt to clear his throat he says, “Alright, Cinderella, get back into your street clothes. Brunch starts in twenty minutes.”

Will flips him off discreetly and pulls the changing room curtain closed in one sweeping motion, like a magician flaring his cape to an audience. 

“We’ll take it,” Derek says, the tailor smiling at the successful sale and leading him to the counter.

**//**

Brunch with Neil's family is spectacularly uneventful, for the most part. They go to The Fat Radish, a farm-to-table restaurant where the omelettes are fifteen dollars and the yogurt's made from sheep's milk. They've booked a private room to fit both their families, Neil's parents and grandparents and two older brothers, and the two brothers' wives. Derek's side takes up less space, his parents and sister, sitting across from the grandpa he barely knows, not understanding Arabic too well. He speaks enough to force his way through introducing Will as his friend, even with his limited vocabulary. The language barrier leads to a quiet meal with silent communication exchanged from time to time, his grandpa pushing the plate of zucchini bread towards them, globs of roasted tomato sitting atop each slice. "Good, must try."

Will accepts the offer, smiling as Derek's grandfather watches him take a bite, the tomato making a squelching sound as he does. "Very good," Will agrees, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Derek knows for a fact Will hates tomatoes. 

"Boys, smile!"

He hadn't noticed his mom standing across from them, holding her phone square in front of her with both hands. Derek drapes an arm across the back of Will's chair, tries his best to smile, and drops his arm immediately after.

"Oh, that was a video. Here, let me try again."

Derek groans and Will kicks him under the table. "Fine, fine. Smiling," Derek says between clenched teeth, leaning in once again.

"Now one with the bride-to-be. Jasmine, honey, get in this one."

"_Oh God_," Derek mutters, while Will's all too happy to oblige, the little shit.

This is what he gets for laughing at Will earlier. Instant karma.

Nine photos later (he knows, he counted), Mom moves on to harass her next unsuspecting victims on Neil's side of the table.

"Having fun?" Will asks after she's a safe distance away, low enough only Derek can hear.

"I'm too sober for this."

A disappointed frown. "Nursey--"

"I'm kidding. Jokes. Chill." He spears a mushroom with his fork and ignores the look Will's giving him.

Their plates are nearly cleared when one of the brothers rises to his feet, a flute of champagne and orange juice in his hand. "I'd like to make a toast, and I'll try not to embarrass myself too much." He pauses for a polite hush of laughter as the table settles, utensils set on the plates, chatter dying down. "I've known Neil for a few years now--" More hushed laughter, smiles around the table. "--and I've witnessed the impossible. Jasmine's actually convinced him to cut his hair."

Neil chuckles and Jasmine leans into his side, so visibly in love, tucking a strand behind his ear. The wives coo at the display of affection.

Derek's chewed the last of his omelette to a tasteless mush that he swallows hardly, trying to force it down his throat.

"In all seriousness, we are brought here together for a reason, to learn from their love to find peace within ourselves and solace in our loved ones. Neil and Jasmine, you offer strength and comfort to your partner. It's not your words that prove your faith to each other, but your actions."

Though Will is paying attention, hands neatly folded in his lap, Derek can feel his leg bouncing under the table. Impatient, maybe.

Derek agrees. Just get to the point. 

"It's wonderful that you've found each other to share your joy and spend your life with. Neil had told me, after two months of dating, 'Arjun, I know she's the one.'"

A chorus of _awe_'s from the women.

"And I said, 'Neil, mate, you're _crazy_.'"

Laughter. Sitting beside the brother, his wife rolls her eyes, just as fond.

"The love you've found is rare, but still comes with its challenges. Know that there is always room for forgiveness in your heart, regardless of the hardships you may face. Though you may drift apart at times, you will always find a way back to each other. Above all, know yourself best, since you must be honest with yourself to be honest with your partner." He pauses and lifts his glass, "Cheers to the happy couple."

Grudgingly, Derek raises his drink.

To be honest, he fucking hates weddings.


	6. Chapter 6

Even after three years of friendship, none of Chowder's unrelenting optimism has rubbed off on Derek. He'd say he's a realist, and realistically, things never work out in his favor, so maybe that makes Derek a pessimist.

Regardless, he expects the wedding rehearsal to be no more enjoyable than sitting through a hour-long lecture for a prerequisite he has no interest in. Wedding Bullshit 101.

He'll admit--not proudly--that he slipped a tiny pill into his pocket this morning, dreading the day ahead of him; a small dosage, one tablet for six hours, and it's been so long his tolerance levels have returned to normal, leaving him only mildly blissed for the peak of it, then calm. So Derek doesn't mind being pushed around by the wedding planner, a tall, middle-aged blonde woman who's done everything in her power to appear younger. Lifted cheeks, dyed roots, heavy lashes. She drags him from Will and matches him with a bridesmaid to walk down the aisle with, his body moved around like a chess piece rather than a person. He's told to stand straight and not move once he reaches the altar. Jasmine and Dad walk together, both looking a bit teary-eyed.

Derek's the first one to speak, reciting a poem Jasmine had chosen for her wedding before she had even met Neil. And it's a shame; he loves Maya Angelou but he's never disliked a poem more.

The microphone's sharp feedback stirs murmurs of discomfort, the planner flying across the room to get the problem fixed immediately.

He's given the go-ahead and reads from the paper despite having the whole thing memorized by heart.

"We, unaccustomed to courage  
exiles from delight  
live coiled in shells of loneliness  
until love leaves its high holy temple  
and comes into our sight  
to liberate us into life.  
  
Love arrives  
and in its train come ecstasies  
old memories of pleasure  
ancient histories of pain.  
Yet if we are bold,  
love strikes away the chains of fear  
from our souls.  
  
We are weaned from our timidity  
In the flush of love's light  
we dare be brave  
And suddenly we see  
that love costs all we are  
and will ever be.  
Yet it is only love  
which sets us free."

He leaves the podium with his eyes trained ahead of him, returning to the imaginary 'X' on the ground where he's to stand throughout the rest of the procession. He quickly grows bored and starts to look around--

The wedding's being held at an old foundry that's been converted into a venue for private events, ivy growing up the brick walls, lights hanging from beams in the ceiling. Natural sunlight spills in from the large windows, unlit candles lining the white-blanketed aisle. Everything's half-finished, as of now, no flowers in the large vases, a stack of chairs in the corner not yet arranged. 

\--He looks everywhere but the audience, where he knows Will is sitting in one of the first few rows, next to Mom, casual and politely interested, belonging too well.

Silently, and perhaps subconsciously, he knows Mom has been planning for his own big day. The florist was a delight to work with, we need to save that number. Oh and I loved that venue, too. Maybe next time. Keep that design, we can use it later.

Derek was wrong, this whole time. It wasn't the pretending that was the worst part, as much as it hurt. It was seeing what could have been and what will never be.

**//**

Rehearsal dinner proceeds much the same as brunch had, only with more people, immediate family and wedding party members with their significant others and spouses, plus a few small children. Derek and Will find their seats near the end of the table, across from a family that consists of a husband, wife, and toddler. Will excuses himself to the bathroom after they order, Derek following at his heels rather than being left to the wolves.

Once out of sight, his phone buzzes with a suggestive wink emoji text from Jasmine which he ignores completely.

Derek tries to pee, to make it seem like he followed Will for a reason, but he hasn't had much to eat or drink all day. They had both slept in, waking up closer than they had fallen asleep, no time for much more than a cup of coffee before being rushed to to a hotel to greet relatives that had just flown in who Derek doesn't know all too well. After that was afternoon tea per the groom's family's request, an event which Derek found a little ridiculous, where Will couldn't wrap his head around why the sandwiches were so tiny. 

They're standing besides each other, washing their hands in the sink, both their reflections tired, and Derek should say something.

"Sorry again." He shakes the water off his hands, not bothering to wipe them. "I know you didn't sign up for this."

"It's fine," Will says automatically. He rubs a towel between his hands until both are dry, Derek waiting for him by the door. "It's kind of strange, though."

"Hm?"

"Like, it's so different from anything I'm used to."

"Yeah, Jasmine's taste is a little... showy."

"Not just that," Will says though he agrees, nodding along, "I mean, yes. But I'm also the only white person here, which is new."

"Wonder what that feels like," Derek says sarcastically, bumping their shoulders together.

"Yeah, yeah. Point taken."

They're approaching the dining room again, Derek slipping his hand to rest on the small of Will's back, arranging themselves to stand closer by default, an adjustment they've become too comfortable with.

Stepping forward, Derek tries to lead them in but for some reason Will won't budge. He turns his face and Will's looking at him, lips tightened in a strange way that nearly looks like concern. "And how about you-- how have you been? Honestly."

Derek takes a moment to think, and there's so much he could say. He's never been more simultaneously hopeful and in despair, aching yet self-disciplined (most of the time, anyway). Will's watching him in all earnest, waiting until Derek settles on, "Better than I thought." An answer but not quite.

Their plates arrive at their table, fusion food Derek can't place a label on if he tried, tapas and European charcuterie, asian noodles and Italian wines. Will befriends the toddler who's made an absolute mess of her dinner, happily squealing as Will pulls funny faces that shouldn't be so charming. It doesn't make things any easier.

They return home late that night, woozy from Sangiovese and Sauvignon blanc, stomachs stuffed to the point of excess. Derek's collapsed on the bed and kicked his shoes onto the floor because he couldn't be bothered to move. Will is-- somewhere. He doesn't really know. Derek's staring at the the ceiling, zoning out as he regulates his breathing, aware of his own heartbeat which feels like it may be thumping just a little too fast.

During the car ride back, they had both fallen asleep on each other, slowly drifting out of consciousness as buildings and street signs flew past them. His heart hasn't stopped racing since Mom woke them up with a gentle shake and told them to go inside and get some rest, they have a big day tomorrow; for some reason Derek felt like they were caught, that she witnessed a moment that was too genuine and intimate for two people who've broken up.

“Should I call you Grant now, or what?”

"Huh?" Derek lolls his head to the side to see Will standing in the doorframe, and he repeats the question to himself. It still doesn't make sense, and Derek's sure it's not just the wine. “What are you talking about.”

Will tosses an object onto the mattress, which bounces a couple times until landing by Derek's face, and _shit._

Yesterday, while Will was in the shower and Derek had free time, he hit up an old friend. Meet me by Korean Express in 15 minutes. Seventeen dollars. Two small white tablets.

He reads the stranger's name on the bottle. Grant Harnet. 

****“Are you going through my stuff." Is the first thing he says.

“_Really_, Derek? I was looking for a Q-tip, relax." Derek knows that tone and God, he is not off to a good start. "You’re lucky I found it and not someone else.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t-- that’s not the point.” Will closes his eyes and exhales a breath before looking at him again. 

“Don’t worry about it, D. For real.”

He expects Will to push the issue farther, to say something along the lines of '_are you fucking serious_' or '_are you really doing this again_'--

Because he's the only one Derek's told about his past drug abuse, on a night when they were laying in bed with the windows open, the large moon pulled from the sky and illuminating the room with light that felt fluorescent as they opened up to each other; blanket tossed aside, laying on their backs, heads tipped together. A lifetime ago.

\--and then Derek would explain that he bought two Percocet. _Two_. A low dose and on a whim. It's seriously no big deal.

Will doesn't speak. He shakes his head and turns off the lights, silently crawling into bed, far on the other side. Derek doesn't speak.

There's no moonlight in the room whatsoever. The curtains are shut, not allowing even a faint glow, Derek's eyes slow to adjust to the dark. The only sound he can hear is his own heartbeat, even louder in his ears than before. 

After some time, Derek's pretty sure Will's fallen asleep. Neither of them have moved at all.

“I can still care about you, Derek." The words are quieter than before, Will's back turned towards him, but they're just as clear. "I didn’t forfeit that right when we broke up.”

"Will--"

"Forget it." Will flips his pillow to the other side and wrestles into a sleeping position, indicating he's done talking.

"Goodnight," Derek whispers, for some reason he's not sure of. He falls asleep waiting to hear it back.


	7. Chapter 7

The day of the wedding, Derek wakes up before the sun rises. He had a fitful sleep, twisting and fidgeting throughout the night, waking up more exhausted than he had fallen asleep.

He was so close--_so close_\--to fixing things between them, and just had to fuck it up again.

He cooks an apology breakfast. Eggs and toast, chicken sausage, fresh orange juice. Coffee the way Will likes it. He wipes off the counter and clutches his own mug, waiting for the moment to come.

Jasmine wanders in first. Derek can feel the own disappointment on his face, _you're not the person I wanted,_ but she's unaffected, floating in a bubble of happiness. 

"Can you believe it?" She grabs a glass of orange juice, testing a sip before deciding it's to her liking. "I'm going to be _m__arried_, wow." Cue the rainbows and sparkles. "Today's the day!"

"Crazy."

"Der, smile. Or actually, don't. Act candid." 

He doesn't have the energy to point out that 'act candid' is an oxymoron, letting Jasmine take a picture that he can guarantee will be added to her 'The Big Day!' wedding album on facebook, where she's uploaded pictures of everything from dress shopping to cake testing, professional photos from her girls' day; satin bath robes and a staged slumber party pillow fight.

Absolutely nauseating.

Two sets of footsteps thump down the stairs, one after another. Mom and Dad.

Mom smiles warmly, thanking him for the 'lovely surprise.' He tries to mimic the gesture but it doesn't come out quite right.

Everyone's happy, conversing brightly to each other, a general air of excitement in the room. Looks like the weather's going to be perfect today. We should arrive an hour early. When exactly does the reception start again? Jasmine sips on the orange juice and takes three bites of toast ("I don't want to looked _bloated_ today, Dad. I'll eat more at the reception") then leaves with Mom for morning yoga. Dad retreats to the office once Derek prohibits him off from eating the last of the sausage.

With the kitchen empty once again, Derek stews in his own thoughts. _Why is he even trying? _He's making things worse. It'll be easier this way, a clean break. 

He washes dishes and stares at his distorted reflection in the water. He's in too deep, past the point of no return.

The food goes cold as time passes, napkins absorbing sausage grease in slow-forming splotches until the napkin's turned translucent, and Derek gives up. He scrapes the rest of the eggs into the trash because no one likes old eggs anyway, and dumps the rest into a Tupperware, thoroughly cleaning to try to bide his time. 

He wanders to the living room and flips through channels on the TV, alternating between watching the news and American Pickers (his Dad's favorite show, shortcut button on the remote) until he becomes bored. He rummages through the drawers of the TV stand, finding old movies from his teens and childhood, all the Harry Potters, anything directed by Wes Anderson, some action movies. There's a tangle of multiple electronic chords he starts to pick apart, like detangling holiday lights.

When even that grows old he slowly drags himself back upstairs, pausing in the hallway.

Maybe Will wants space.

Hell to it, they've had three months of 'giving each other space.'

Derek opens his bedroom door as quietly as possible, staying at the doorframe rather than stepping in. Will's well awake but in pajamas, hunched over himself where he's sitting at the end of the bed, flipping his phone in his hands. His signature fidget. 

Before he speaks, Derek softly clears his throat. "Hey. I made breakfast. Leftovers in the fridge. Coffee's the way you like it."

"Thanks." Will's staring off into the distance, unblinking.

Derek recognizes this Will. He's disappointed. It's the same state he enters after losing a game, or feels he underperformed, or doesn't do well on a test. Derek exhales a breath that lodged in his throat sometime between breakfast and now as he toes into the room, shutting the door behind him. Will remains unmoved when Derek sits on the edge of the bed next to him, a calculated distance between them.

Derek looks at the wall, too, not sure what else to do with himself. It takes him some time to get the courage to speak. “Are you still mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

Bullshit, but whatever. Semantics. Derek tries again, “Are you still disappointed at me.”

Will makes a scoff-laugh that’s so quiet Derek thinks he may have imagined it.

In Derek's peripheral, Will's hands stop fidgeting.

“It’s just—" Derek can feel eyes burning into the side of his head even though he's certain they're both staring intently at the wall. "Does me being here really bother you so much you self-medicate?”

Like that Derek's focus breaks, and his heart sinks a bit. That wasn't his intention at all. “Will, no." He desperately wishes he could grab Will's hands, tug them until Will looks at him instead of the stupid wall. "Fuck, I'm sorry you thought that. Honest." He stares at the side of Will's head, his Dumbo ears and delicate nose. Pale smooth skin covered with summer freckles. A strange beauty that stirred conflict in Derek since the day they met. "Surprisingly, three years later and I can still tolerate being around you." He tries to joke but it falls flat. "It’s even been kind of nice, having you around." He nudges Will's foot with his own and can see Will's guard go down, just a bit, starting to believe him. "But with my family all here and my tendency to fuck things up… it’s just like a little relief off my chest. If I’m sedated it means I care.”

Will finally looks at him. “That’s the worst excuse ever.”

“Did it work though?”

“Kind of,” Will admits, then there's a heavy sigh as he rubs his hand over his face, tugging at his skin like he's all shades of exhausted. "What did we get ourselves into."

"Seriously. We're kinda idiots. Me moreso than you. This could be a movie."

"It really could," Will agrees with a soft smile, a trace of humor from understanding how thoroughly ridiculous this whole situation is. He flips his phone in his hands a couple more times, blank expression returning. “And you don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“You don’t have a tendency to fuck things up.”

Derek gives him a look that shows he doesn’t believe it. He wipes his palms on his knees, realizing how clammy they had become. “Anyway, at least I’m not drunk or high. Or both. It’s pretty low key.”

“Fair. High Nursey is so needy.”

“_Hey_. High me is like, super chill. Don’t talk shit about him just ‘cause drunk me was your favorite.”

Drinks plus Derek equals horny Derek. Horny Derek equaled happy Will. Easy.

And they say math is hard.

Will laughs lightly, quiet enough it'd go unheard if Derek weren't so close. Eventually Will's eyes wander back to the wall. It's obvious there's something still on his mind, so Derek waits.

“It’s just. . . You’ve had a drug problem before, and I don’t want to be the reason you. . .”

“Relapse?” Derek guesses, and Will swallows as he nods, the only one Derek’s openly talked to about his past. Shitty might have his suspicion, if word spread around Andover, but it was always just speculation. “Will, no. Fuck. I’m past that. Like, for good. In high school I was just going through a pretty heavy depression--”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” Will interrupts. “If you don’t want to. I understand.”

Derek offers an appreciative half smile. He _knows_ Will understands; he had more than enough experience of going through shit for the majority of his childhood and adolescence too. Both his parents worked long hours and it was pretty heartbreaking to learn how early Will started taking care of himself (Derek never even packed his own lunches, for fucks sake), but most of the fucked up shit is due to his older brother. It’s hard to figure out their relationship. Derek’s never met him, but the couple of times he tried to comment on how the guy’s like, _high key _ abusive, Will always rushed to defend family. (“He used to beat you up, though.” “Nursey, that’s just what having an older brother is like.” “He would blame everything on you. He’d criticize anything you said.” “Because I’m younger than him. I'm his _little brother_. I don’t get what you don’t understand.” “It’s more than that, though. He has a complete power complex. That’s emotional abuse, D.” “Just drop it, Nurse.” “And when you came out--” “Derek. Drop it.”)

“Seriously. I’m better now. There’s no need to worry, and if things get bad you'll be the first person I talk to. Promise,” Derek says, truthfully, even holding out his hand between them, pinky stuck in their air.

Will squints at him, now, scrutinizing for good measure. Intimidation tactic. It's cute. “You’re telling the truth? Hundred percent?”

“Hundo P. Gimme your pinky, dude.”

Will lets the tension drop from his shoulders and, despite rolling his eyes, links their pinkies together.

"Thanks," Will whispers, breathed rather than spoken. 

The familiar itch crawls over Derek. _Closer_, _move closer_. If he just leaned in they would be inches apart, mingling coffee and morning breath, a swell of summer heat--

The illusion is broken when Will clears his throat. "So. You said something about breakfast?"

**//  
**

It would be a lie to say the wedding proceeded without error. A bridesmaid ripped her dress, the catering arrived behind schedule, and there was a crying child in the audience the entire time, but the overwhelming sense of joy seemed to mask all these. Relatives and friends of the bride and groom met for the first time, or reunited, with afternoon sunlight casting everyone in a summer glow, a rolling breeze ruffling the petals of the bouquet, Jasmine's veil rippling like a wave of tulle behind her. Mom cried, and Neil, too. Dad choked up as he squeezed his daughters hand down the aisle. 

The ceremony was beautiful and Derek never felt happier for his sister, to see someone basking in love and showing so much gratitude for it, taking pictures with each guest, even the ones she hardly knew. 

It reminded him of what love can be, though he didn't want to think too much into it.

For now, his only goal is to enjoy himself and the rest of the evening. 

At sunset he's found his way to the balcony that overlooks the reception, white fabric draped skillfully across the banister, billowing in the breeze. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the top buttons undone. He occupies himself with a game of Where's Waldo, picking out people from the crowd. Jasmine, that's easy. She's the only one in white. Mom's the easiest to find next, taking pictures on her phone even though there's _three photographers_. He's pretty sure his dad is somewhere in the crowd of men puffing cigars. The toddler he met at rehearsal dinner is running around the dance floor with glow sticks clutched in both hands. Neil has a pirate hat on at the photo booth. The only one he can't find is Will, who disappeared after dinner--

"Found you," Will says, emerging from behind. Derek's surprised he didn't hear anyone coming up the cobblestone steps. "Getting some fresh air?"

"Something like that," Derek shrugs.

It hasn't been as overwhelming as he had anticipated. He thought the wedding would be a bitter reminder about _love _and how lonely he's become, in these past few months, but it's done the opposite. 

He's finally happy again.

Will joins Derek by his side and looks out to the crowd of people, of all ages and walks of life, gathered in celebration. 

He seems content, too. Full of food and champagne; subdued. 

"I meant to ask, did you pick out the poem?" Will asks after a while, the sun set a little lower. 

"Nah, Jasmine did. She had it planned since high school."

"Not surprised."

Derek smiles, his thoughts long since turned fuzzy from the dinner toasts. The hanging lanterns cast a warm yellow glow across both their skin, the white floral decorations appearing almost golden in its path. He lets his eyes flutter closed. "Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies. Old memories of pleasure; ancient histories of pain." He breathes, the air smelling of cake and champagne, of lilies and of summer. "Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls."

He opens his eyes and Will's staring at him openly, unabashed, something he never would have done just weeks ago. His head is tilted, waiting for Derek to explain, so Derek does. "That's my favorite part."

"Why?"

"It-- I guess it feels most relevant to me right now. After. . ." He waves a hand between them. "Us."

Will hums, showing none of the surprise Derek had expected from the confession.

"'_Ancient history_,' huh?" Will raises a brow, but he's not poking at the fire. A gentle push, a single step forward. 

"I mean that we've both had enough time to heal and move on, right?"

For some reason Will seems disappointed with this answer. "Right." 

"Hey. Moving on doesn't mean moving away. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Are you sure that's not the champagne talking."

"Will, this is _me _talking." Derek rests his hand on Will's shoulder, steady, anchoring, serious. With the other he holds up the glass flute. "_This _is the champagne talking: _Hell-oooo Poindexter, do you want to see how fast Nursey can drink me?_"

Will laughs and it's the most beautiful sound in the world. It makes Derek's heart knot just a little bit tighter. 

"_So_ stupid," Will says, once he's sobered.

"You _dated _this. Who's the stupid one now? Check. Mate."

"So, so stupid." Will repeats, and there's a crack of a smile as his eyes drop to the floor.

Tomorrow, Will leaves for good. Six o'clock flight to Maine. Now, though. For now Derek is happy.

//

They bid farewell to the last guest at midnight. The venue's quiet, the deejay gone and party over. Mom is delegating what happens to the leftovers as Jasmine and Neil sit slumped at one of the dinner tables, peacefully exhausted. By now, Derek's worn this suit for too long, sweat the whole night, even if half the buttons have been undone. Will's equally as tired and ruffled looking, eyes opening just periodically to check the time on his his phone. 

"Hey," Derek shakes Will's shoulders, partially startling him awake. "Let's call an Uber out of here, yeah? Cleaning up might take a while." He tips his head in the general direction of where the wedding planner is still somehow standing on her feet and giving orders to the venue workers.

Will yawns, wide-mouthed, his breath stale. "Okay," he agrees, taking a moment longer to push himself to stand on two feet. 

Derek finds a ride, kisses his mom on the cheek, gives Jasmine a hug, and takes one last look around him before returning to Will's side and bidding his family goodbye.

The driver has the AC set incredibly too cold, the two of them leaning into the other's side and sinking into the seats. Will falls asleep within the first five minutes.

They clamber up the porch steps, dragging their feet like zombies. Will doesn't even brush his teeth, he's so out of it, just swigging mouthwash and haphazardly getting ready for bed while Derek changes into a t-shirt. 

Derek's absolutely drained, too, dizzy from exhaustion and alcohol, his teeth aching with the amount of dessert he ate. His vision's blurry and the rest of his body feels fuzzy, thrumming, humming. He crawls into bed but can't seem to lie still. Will emerges from the hallway and immediately buries himself beneath the covers, making a sound of content. His eyes drift closed blissfully.

"It was a beautiful wedding," Will mumbles, yawning again. He pulls the blanket tighter to himself, until he finds just the right spot. And then, for no reason other than sleep deprivation that Derek can think, Will says, "I wish I didn't't have to leave tomorrow," eyes still closed.

Derek takes a dry gulp, his throat tightening. He admires Will's face, resting and beautiful, freckles paled by the moonlight. His features are incredibly softened, vulnerable. Derek doesn't know when their faces got so close.

"Then stay."

Will's eyes open, just slightly, and his mouth parts. He seems to study Derek's expression. The room is completely silent. Derek feels Will's breath fan across his own skin, warm and inviting, begging him to come closer.

In that moment, Derek's brain is railed with the urge to pull him in. To _touch_. To _kiss_. So Derek does. He cups Will's jaw with his hand and kisses him softly, painfully. 

He regrets it immediately. 


	8. Chapter 8

Derek wonders if this is what it feels like to drift off into another dimension. It's four in the morning now. In two hours the sun is going to rise and in thirteen hours he'll be driving to the airport. Afterward, his life will return to normal. He'll start work on Monday and send e-mails and reports until Friday, and he'll keep doing this until August, when three months have passed and him and Dex can return to normal.

Him and Dex- right. Everything always comes back to that.

He hadn't gotten any sleep, after the kiss. He had immediately apologized and turned to the other side of the bed and turned off the light. Then he laid in silence, entire body tense with a deep, tangible hatred for himself. He's a completed idiot and has nothing to blame for the kiss, not the exhaustion or champagne or the tiny voice at the back of his head he could have ignored but chose not to.

Derek couldn't handle it anymore, waiting to hear signs of Dex sleeping before he made an escape to the balcony, blindly feeling his way around the house in the middle of the night.

Who was he kidding when he thought him and Will had a future together. _I wouldn't survive in Maine, anyway,_ he thinks to himself, admiring his city that never sleeps. Even at four in the morning he's not alone. There's the clamor of garbage trucks starting their rounds, people returning home from long nights out, the faintest sound of birds chirping, a baby's cry from the building across the street. 

So he's not alone. But he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he's lonely.

And he begins to understand it. Why they didn't work; Derek's far too sensitive, crying over poetry and films he's seen before, needing validation in his grades and season stats to feel like he's worth something. He has a twenty minute skincare and hair routine after he showers, but can't keep his room clean if his life depended on it. He's needy and gets consumed by relationships, falling too hard too fast. Dex deserves better.

It'll be a bittersweet senior year. He's thinking too far ahead into the future, he knows, but they're really growing up. Chowder and Farmer are _serious_, Dex is team captain and definitely on recruiters' radius, the Waffles are sophomores, and Bitty won't be baking pies in the Haus anymore. Derek's going to graduate and have to figure out his life for real.

He thought he was good at adapting to change but it sits heavily on his shoulders as he leans over the railing, watching the stillness of the street below. He tunes out the noises of the city until it feels like he's standing in absolute silence, mind blissfully empty. His eyes flutter shut and he breathes deeply, the air not fresh but familiar, the smell of concrete and grass and meat carts that wafts through the neighborhood.

Then suddenly he's not alone.

"Hey." Will's standing there, Derek's blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair's a ruffled mess, and he looks so small under the large duvet. He's hesitant to move any closer.

Derek doesn't know what to think. _Why does it never get easier?_ "Did I wake you?"

Will takes a tiny step forward and doesn't answer the question. "It's freezing out here," he says instead, blanket dragging behind him.

Derek realizes that it is cold, the odd chill of an early summer morning before the sun rises and all of New York is covered in sticky, humid air. There's goosebumps up his arms he hadn't noticed before. 

"Can I?" Will tips his head toward the railing, in the empty space near Derek.

A nod, then the soft scuffle of bare feet on stone.

Will drapes the other side of the blanket around Derek, excruciatingly gentle but cautious not to get too close and it hurts.

It hurts so, so much.

Because this might be the last moment they have together, like this. Completely by themselves outside of their routine of practices, class, games, and more practices. It feels like they're closing the chapter on this part of their lives. 

"Sorry," Derek finally says. His throat scratches and his voice is stiff but he means it.

"For what?"

"I don't know." He shrugs, and dares a glance in Will's direction, where he's staring across the street, profile illuminated by streetlights. Nursey had first realized his feelings for Dex in Faber sophomore year. The sun had begun to set as they walked into the rink, the large windows casting warm yellow sunlight onto the ice. Dex was absolutely illuminated. His eyes burned an even deeper amber, fiery red wisps of hair peeking beneath his helmet, and Derek had lost his words, swallowing the feelings with a heavy gulp that sat like a stone in his stomach for an entire week. He got over it, but then they shared a room and it was impossible to ignore. Now, though, this Dex appears as a completely different person before him, otherworldly, nose and ears the faintest red, utterly serene. Angelic. "I guess I'm sorry for everything."

"I don't think you're being fair on yourself." Will looks to him, after a while. His expression is pained, eyes large, mouth parted, completely void of the tough exterior he wears like a second skin. "I should be the one apologizing." 

"Really." Derek reacts flatly, not sure what to feel.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Derek. And I'm sorry for not being completely open with you about that."

The words take a moment to fully register. When they do he's reminded of how he felt after the breakup, the confusion that crept over him like a fog, thick and suffocating, unrelenting for week. He feels nothing now.

"Then what was it, Will?"

Will sucks in a breath between his teeth, adverting his eyes. "You're seriously gonna hate this but I have no other way to put it."

"Lay it on me."

They lock eyes, again, and Will says, "It wasn't you, it's me," and immediately cringes afterward, like he's heard nails on a chalkboard.

"Ouch, _right_ from the book. Not gonna lie, that hurts, Poindexter. Completely lacks creativity."

"Shut up," Will rebuttals, but there's somewhat of a soft smile gracing his lips, for mere seconds until they flatten gain. "I was scared, okay? You're the most amazing person I've ever met--stop looking smug, dipshit--but, yeah. I was scared shitless."

Nursey remembers to breathe and takes a step closer, giving Dex an encouraging nudge. "And."

"And you were my first real boyfriend or- or _anything _significant and it happened so fast, you know? One minute we hated each other and the next minute you were eating Christmas dinner with my family. And now _we're seniors. _I was thinking about the future, and you, and you in _my _future and I freaked out. I talked myself out of the relationship and convinced myself it was a bad idea because I was scared."

"What future did you see? With us." When Derek asks, his voice is so quiet he's not sure he spoke. He's close enough to feel the warmth of Dex's body heat, close enough to smell his shampoo.

Will swallows, and struggles to speak, like this is the one question he wasn't prepared to answer. "It's not- it's not what I saw. It's that, whatever future I had planned, I would have dropped it for you. And that scares me."

"Will-"

"I didn't know how to handle it so I fucked things up for the both of us by overthinking. And that's why I'm sorry."

Derek's left dumfounded, swimming in pools of thought that seem to flow in no direction, intersecting streams that churn his brain and spit it back out, whiplash.

At 4 A.M. in New York City, there are two boys standing half dressed beneath the sky, aching with pain for the other's affection.

"Why wait. Why tell me this now?" Derek's voice is hoarse and ugly as tears prick at his eyes.

"Because I still love you," Will says, in all earnest, all moonlight and warmth and melancholy.

Derek breaks.

At 4 A.M. in New York City, two boys confess their love for the first time, crying in one another's arms.

**//**

Derek wakes to his brain feeling muddled, face dried stiff from salty tears, but happy. Derek wakes to Will in his arms as the midday sun shines onto them brightly.

"What time is it?" Will mumbles, face squished into Derek's side. He sniffles, nose still runny.

Derek checks his phone. Noon. "_Definitely_ time to get up." Six hours until the flight leaves.

Will grumbles, pulls the duvet tighter, and nestles closer. Derek can't say no to that.

They do eventually emerge from the bedroom, albeit 45 minutes later. 

There's commotion in the kitchen they can hear from the stairs, the sound of the oven timer beeping and a tea kettle boiling. English Breakfast with honey. They stand in the entrance hand-in-hand, watching Mom heat leftovers and Dad on the phone, Neil and Jasmine with luggage at their feet for the honeymoon.

"Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Chandra-Nurse," Derek greets, smiling at how Jasmine absolutely beams at her new name.

"Wasn't it _magical_, Der?" She dips into Neil's side, fluttering her eyelashes. "Our vows. Our dance. Our families there--I can't even explain it, oh my god. Just wait for your big day-"

"Woah, chill." Derek cuts her off. "Baby steps, Jaz."

He feels Dex squeeze his hand. Derek squeezes back.

_Baby_ _steps._


End file.
